


There’s no John without Sherlock

by ClueyLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Depressing, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, The Reichenbach Fall, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, attempted suicide, otp, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClueyLock/pseuds/ClueyLock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based after The Reichenbach Fall.</p><p> John falls into extreme depression, and longs for Sherlock. After going through his own personal hell, John decides to end it. Or at least, he try to...</p>
            </blockquote>





	There’s no John without Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor/gifts).



“I need you to say it out loud,” the psychiatrist said softly to John, “you need to hear yourself say it.” Ella gently patted John's hand from over the table, in a hope that he would find some comfort in this.  
“I...can't,” John's voice cracked, “-I don't believe it. I...can't.” A light sob escaped John's lips, and he didn't try to hold himself back as tears began streaming down his already damp cheeks.  
“What is there not to believe?” Ella said quietly; she must have asked the broken hearted Doctor this question over a hundred times, yet she still managed to feel truly sorry for him.  
The silence that followed was painful, and John had pulled his knees up tight to his chest, and was rocking uneasily backwards and forwards on his plastic blue chair. “John?”  
“I- I need to go,” John quickly stood up and stumbled towards the door, tripping over the blue chair leg as a sudden light-headed feeling took him by surprise, “g’bye, Ella.”  
“John, wait!” Ella began, but knew it was no use. The Doctor was forever walking out half way through his therapy sessions. Or, of course, not even showing up to them at all.  
The door clicked shut and the hurried footsteps of John Watson echoed down the corridor, his right leg landing heavier than his left. After the Reichenbach fall, his limp had returned to him, and the pain in both his left shoulder and his heart a constant ache. His longing for his companion was unbearable.

The bitter cold morning air hit him as he walked back out onto the London streets, and his dizzy spell seemed to have disappeared completely.  
John pressed the button at the zebra crossing and waited for the green man to light up at the other side. He brushed the back of his hand over his eyes, hoping that any redness wasn't too obvious, after the mass tear-shedding there had been back in Ella's office only a few minutes ago. After taking two very deep, calming breaths, he glanced across the road to check whether or not the pedestrian lights had changed or not. They hadn't.  
Sighing, John walked out into the road anyway, not caring to wait any longer, and distantly heard a car burning rubber on the Tarmac as the driver slammed his breaks on. John didn't appear to take any notice at the foul words from the driver being aimed directly at him, and continued his slow and steady tread, which was taking him in no particular direction.  
This often happened to John - his daily routine was usually to wake up with a cold sweat and shivering after dreaming that Sherlock was sat on the end of his bed, well and very much alive; go visit Ella (and leave around half way through after she dared to try and mention his friend's name to him); and then walk around London and end up in some unknown place where he would have to take a taxi back to 221B Baker Street, which would often be a pricey fare.  
John rummaged in his pockets and managed to find a five pound note, a fifty pence piece and Sherlock's library card. Why he had the library card in his pocket, he had no idea. Maybe it was there for sentimental reasons? John didn't really know. Sherlock had never used the card anyway - he would just take the books and go, which had often resulted in an in depth argument between him and the librarian, and eventually ended up with Sherlock having an 8 month ban from the place. Anyway, John thought, this certainly isn't enough for a taxi ride across the city.

But John started walking anyway. After twenty minutes of walking, he found himself in the park which he and Sherlock had used to sit, and try and solve murder cases using Sherlock's fantastic 'memory palace', and John's knowledge of the murder at hand.  
He hasn't been here since...the fall. That's what John called it. Some journalists called it "The Jump", others called it "The Push", although John knew for a fact that Sherlock wasn't physically pushed. After all, Sherlock wouldn't have done what he did unless it was necessary...would he?  
Another tear escaped John's eye and he perched himself on the bench where Sherlock had sat only three months ago. Memories began pouring back, filling his head with violins, long coats and pale grey eyes. Tears began to silently slip down John's face once more. 

They're the worst type of tears - the silent ones. Nobody notices unless they look directly at you, and even if they do look, they don't understand your pain. Not really.

John looked around the park with bleary eyes, and saw the bridge which Sherlock had first laid his eyes upon John. They were only strangers to each other then, but John remembers it vividly.  
The tears still falling, John stood up from the bench and limped his way to the top of the bridge, where joggers and cyclists were constantly crossing over. Once he was at the top, he looked over the railing at the waters swirling angrily below in the wind. 

Then a terrifying, yet startlingly welcoming thought, crossed his mind.

“Sherlock...Holmes,” he whispered into the wind, “Sherlock...” it was the first time John had said his friend's name since Sherlock's death, and he backed away from the railings that separated himself from the icy waters below.  
“No more dreams of you,” John cried shakily, “no more illusions, no more tears,” he took a deep breath, the tears now flooding down his rosy face “there's no John without Sherlock.”  
A few passers-by had overheard this statement, and had stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at John, suddenly becoming rather aware of the situation at hand.  
“Sir...?” a man called out, walking cautiously towards John. Although John couldn't hear him, for he was too busy focusing on the water below. Everyone's voices was being flushed out of his brain. “Sir, I-” the man on the bridge tried once again to get John's attention. But the sentence was short lived, because John had already began to run at full speed towards the edge of the bridge, limp gone. Then, gripping hold of the railing, he vaulted it like a gymnast and over the bridge he fell.  
Screaming from the passers-by filled the air as John headed downwards towards the murky depths, but all he could think was of Sherlock, who he hopes he would soon see.  
As John hit the water, pain stabbed at his body from every possible angle. The cold from the water was unbearable, but he knew it would be all over soon. Sherlock would be waiting for him.  
John's eyelids began to flutter shut as the last of the oxygen in his lungs started to run out. The salt from the water stinging his eyes, as he hadn't closed them quick enough on entering the water. The pains in his chest were pounding hard, and he felt as if his lungs were going to explode - and then, John's body subconsciously released what air was left in his lungs and his eyes had fixed themselves tightly shut.  
“John!” A distant, panicky voice shouted from above on the bridge, “JOHN?”  
John's unconscious body began to slowly sink to the bottom of the river when another body crashed down into the water, which was followed by further screaming from the witnesses above.  
A pair of strong arms struggled through the water, until they found what they were searching for and tightened themselves around John's waist. The man pulled on John and managed to take them both to the surface, where he took a huge breath of air and stared, panic-stricken at the doctor in his arms who didn't appear to be breathing.  
In less than a minute later, John was being dragged onto the side bank of the river, where his rescuer ripped off his sodden shirt and immediately started to perform CPR while crying John's name over and over again.  
“Wake up, wake up, you fool!” the man was now screaming and crying and breathing into John's mouth. “John!” He cried.  
John started to cough, eyes still closed, water gushing out from his mouth as he turned on his side and coughed up the salty water. “What...?” John started, trying to sit up before failing and slumping back down to the ground. He expected his head to meet quickly with the rocks underneath him, but his rescuer quickly caught him and held John up in a sort-of sitting position. John was too weak to say much, but two words managed to escape his lips.  
“Where's Sherlock-”  
“I'm right here,” his rescuer cried, “I'm right here and I'm so sorry this is all my fault,” he whispered, shaking as he bent down and wept into John's hair, his arms still holding a tight grip on his companion.  
John, despite having just been resuscitated after jumping off of a bridge, managed to sit himself up further, and this time he remain balanced. His hand reached up to the man's chin and he tilted it upwards to reveal his face.  
“Sherlock...” John whispered, while his face turning a nasty shade of grey. His fingers fumbled for Sherlock's pulse - there it was! Clear as day - the healthy, rhythmic pulse of a man who was very much alive. And that man was Sherlock Holmes.

“No,” John muttered, “this...isn't right. I'm dead. You're alive?”  
“No, John,” Sherlock's pale grey eyes looked deep into John's empty blue eyes, “We're both alive. Everything's going to be okay!”  
At the sound of Sherlock's reassuring tone, John let out a gasp and locked his arms tight around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock responded to this, and both of them sat soaking wet, and extremely cold on the river bank, crying. Neither of them wanted to let go of the others' body, in the fear that they would disappear into the thin air and be left alone forever. Sherlock nuzzled his face into the crook of John's neck, and John's hands were tugging lightly at Sherlock's dark locks. “I swear I will never do this to you ever again,” Sherlock whispered, “let's go home, John.”  
And with that, Sherlock arose from the ground, water dripping off of him and pooling on the ground. He leant down to John, and with Sherlock's shoulder pressed firmly into John's, he helped the man to come to his feet.  
The pair walked slowly home, and ignored the ashen faces of all that had witnessed the events that the morning had unfolded. Sherlock knew that in the morning he would have a lot of explaining to do, but for now, John was happy just to be standing next to his companion, and almost forgot that he was soaking wet. Sherlock took John's hand in his, and the two comrades made their way back to their home, at 221B Baker Street.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is rather depressing, I'm sorry! Lets all cry together in the comments :'(


End file.
